


Any Other Name

by Xestricn



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Gender-neutral Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, No Smut, Plotty, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5696959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xestricn/pseuds/Xestricn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it is such a painful thing to care. He wonders when he will be finished with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know how i got here, but i have a lot of feelings about this guy in particular so here i am. takes place after the end of tfa.  
> warnings: some fairly graphic descriptions of wounds; reader is a doctor

The sky glimmers, and you can make out the distant shine of stars and planets curtained by the trees. The sky dims, faster and faster, and it's a strange, terrifying sort of beauty to watch a star die. There's clamoring behind you, calls to arms -- _TIE Fighters have taken down another Resistance ship! Where is the Captain?! Follow the traitor!_ \-- and one of the nurses rushes to stabilize a stormtrooper quickly carried in and left by a comrade.

You turn away from the window just as the nurse removes their helmet and the patient cries out, hand clutching their head and white armor stained red. Three quick strides and you're by their side as they breathe heavily, slowly, and then not at all, eyes blurred by the look of death.

Many of the wounded that have been nearly dumped into the medical bay since the start of the emergency sirens have met similar fates, and, you think, it has only just begun. Perhaps some part of you is superstitious -- stars are not meant to be sucked dry, and people were not meant to tear each other apart -- but it is your job to save them regardless.

You help the nurse move the stormtrooper to a cot before grabbing the blood-washed helmet and searching for their number to input into the records terminal. It takes moments; FN-3020 logged - Killed In Action.

Then the world shakes. Alarms that had previously been going off in sectors below now blare a warning throughout the Base.

"2-1B, quickly," you order the surgical droid, pointing to the emergency evacuation equipment. You run through a mental list of the patients still in the recovery ward, wonder how many you can reach with just the help of the surgical droid and two nurses.

Outside the med bay, the heavy boots of stormtroopers running down the corridor saves you from speculating. They march in and stop short in front of you.

"Doctor, you've been ordered to evacuate."

You drop the dead stormtrooper's helmet and cross your arms. "There are still patients--"

"The General says you are required. Immediately. Enemy pilots have critically hit the thermal oscillator. The Base is not expected to last more than a few minutes," he rattles off quickly, bridging no room to argue. You turn to your nurses who are already shoving medicine, cauterizers and bandages into already stuffed evacuation packs. You grab your own bag, and though the two stormtroopers stand still at attention, you can feel their agitation, their anxiety to move to safety.

With a quick motion of your hand and a nod to the waiting soldiers, you usher the nurses and 2-1B ahead of you, following one stormtrooper out the med bay and into the hall, while the other brought in the rear behind you. The ground continues to shake, and you smell smoke, hear yells and calls for backup and--

And you're back to wondering: what can you do? You think, in the chaos, that doctors are meant to save people, heal and guide and protect, but there are eight lives in the recovery ward that you've abandoned to their death, when you had already worked once to save them from it. Perhaps they know it already, perhaps they think someone will return for them, surely.

It is not the first time the agenda has outweighed lives, you tell yourself. It will not be the last, undoubtedly.

When you first began your medical training, studying under a Republic doctor, you had braced yourself for the reality of death. Every patient could not be saved, and you would not spend your nights sleepless from guilt, trying to convince yourself that if you'd only been faster, more knowledgeable, more determined, that you could pry death away from every person's soul.

But the needlessness of it, the abandonment of _life_ , left you clenching your fists as you approached the evacuation shuttle. Even more, you wondered, why have you rushed to safety, alongside the higher ups within the First Order. Doctors were as replaceable as soldiers when your regime was as large as the Order. Important enough that the General had sent for you. You were fairly sure that could only mean one thing.

You're led to a small alcove with seats and security belts, but nowhere to lay your equipment except at your feet. A few other people you recognize only in brief passing are also quickly boarded, and the entire shuttle gives one creaking tilt before it lifts into the sky. Your small medical team stays together, seated and waiting for the push of light speed, but it doesn't come.

Instead, the ship seems to roam, low and searching, until--

"Doctor! Now!"

You're up in a flash, but you don't have to go far. You can already feel the pump of adrenaline. _This_ is why you were called aboard, why you were saved when so many were left scrambling and deserted. There is no sign of General Hux, and if it is not him in need of a doctor there is only one other you can think of that they would command you to save.

They have him pulled up on their shoulders, dangling between two soldiers by his arms, and are quick in handing him off to you, barely conscious and stumbling over his own feet in an attempt to keep himself up.

"Lucidan," you call for one of the nurses, "hemosponge, now. And after, the cauterizer. Wrehin, a repulsor gurney. 2-1B, please stand-by."

You turn back to the Knight, hands hovering and assessing. Lightsaber wounds, you surmise. You hadn't treated many. Most that saw the red of Kylo Ren's lightsaber didn't tend to need a doctor's help afterward.

The most obvious wound is the blood still dripping down his face, and despite his previous efforts, Ren's left leg seems to be nearly useless at this point. His shoulder is wet and the material of his clothing around it is burnt and frayed, but you can't tell much else through his armor. Wrehin helps you lift him onto the gurney, and Lucidan dabs at the slice along his cheek and between his eyes as you work at removing his clothing. You glance at the nurse's fixed pressure kept to Ren's face and grimace. Head wounds always bleed so much more than other places, and you already know he will scar, but the gravity of what you cannot see at the moment pulls at you more.

"Clean that up, but prepare for whatever's underneath here," you instruct.

The ship lurches at last, but your team stands steady.

Black armor is lifted from his torso, and you cut away the shirt underneath. You've worked the material away from his shoulders, peeling it as delicately as possible away from his wounds. There's a shot to his torso that is already clotting, as blaster wounds are wont to do, but it is wide and the layers of skin and tissue are burnt and an angry red. It is not overly deep, just shy of reaching any of his organs, but the skin and tissues have already fused together. Not a clean wound, and it looks aggravated, but his shoulder and leg are still bleeding at alarming rates.

"Bacta patch this one for now, please," you order. "2-1B, you take the shoulder and I'll take the leg."

The ship goes quiet as your team works. Stormtroopers stand nearby, waiting, and the stars are forgotten things. The Starkiller Base, as quickly as it had consumed the dying star, bursts and fades from view in fire and smoke. 

It takes just under an hour to stabilize him, and your nurses are beginning to wrap bandages around his torso when you finish cauterizing and wrapping up his leg. 2-1B is reorganizing the medical supplies and disposing of the bloody clothing and hemosponges.

You step back, finally, your skin feeling tight and neck stiff.

The ship is directed to a larger space base, one that you had not been stationed on before and seems nearly deserted when you disembark. Similar to most you'd been on, however; bright lights, long halls, wide windows. Stormtroopers escort you to the designated med bay, and you keep a close eye on your patient as he is moved from the gurney to a bed.

You start to remove your own stained coat, dropping it into 2-1B's outstretched metal hand. "Thank you," you say softly to your team. "Don't worry about unloading at the moment. Get some rest. He seems stable for now." With a nod, the two nurses leave their packs and follow one of the stormtroopers back into the hall. 2-1B remains at your side.

"Can you help me hook him to a machine to monitor his condition?" you ask the droid, "I'll set him up on an IV now that he won't be jostled." You hope. How much more can happen in one day, you reason, but quickly dismiss it. Best not to even tempt trouble.

You work efficiently, and the beeping of the machine lets you know that 2-1B is finished. After making sure each wire is plugged in and there is a constant drip for the IV, you pull a blanket out to cover him. He'd been cold when pulled from the woods of the Starkiller Base, and blood loss certainly didn't help.

Finished at last, at least for the moment, you pull a chair to the side of the bed and nearly fall into it with a heavy sigh.

"Doctor, you should rest as well," 2-1B suggests. "I will remain with Kylo Ren in the case of any changes in his condition."

Although you hum in agreement, you make no move to get up. Instead you look towards the stormtrooper standing guard by the door. They don't appear to acknowledge you, standing at attention with a blaster ready. You wonder whose protection it is for; Ren's or your own.

Now, with adrenaline seeping out of your system, you have a moment to think. Before this, you had never really come into contact with Kylo Ren, except in very brief passings as he billowed down halls with heavy steps and hands clenched. But you had heard and, rarely, seen, what the Knight was capable of. You knew little about the Force, only the stories nearly everyone born after the Galactic Empire's defeat had grown up with -- of chaos and Jedi and sacrifice.

Looking at him now, you see no Force, no helmet or cape or lightsaber, only the body of a man with dark hair and angry, red wounds beneath white bandages.

He is younger than you'd imagined, though; perhaps around your own age.

You sit there for a very long time, contemplative, until you find yourself dozing.

You dream of a planet of green. When you were young there was a bird that had built a nest in a tree not far from your home. It was a small, gray thing with a loud voice; afraid of nothing, not even when you climbed up the branches of the tree to sketch its feathers.

You climb the tree and the bird keeps chirping loudly, calling, calling, but you've never seen another like it, so you try and imitate the noise. It's high-pitched and for a moment the bird almost looks startled, and you believe it will fly away. But it doesn't. It opens its mouth.

"Doctor."

You shift in your seat, jarring yourself awake, and remember where you are.

2-1B rolls up behind you and repeats itself. "Doctor, I believe he is regaining consciousness. His chart shows signs of changing heart and brain activity."

It felt as if you were asleep only for a few minutes at the most, but when you glance up you see that the surgical droid is correct. Ren's heartbeat begins to increase, and you push yourself up from the chair.

"Will you find the mediscan unit for me? And prepare some Symoxin, smallest dose for now," you order, back to being on alert.

Kylo Ren gives out a low groan when he finally stirs moments later, and upon finding that that only brought more pain, groaned again, lower and hoarser, and clenched his fists around the blanket at his sides.

"You're safe, sir," you try to comfort, "and I'll be giving you some painkillers in just a minute." You put one hand on his forehead and find it clammy and cold. You wished there were a bacta tank. He would heal so much faster, with so much less pain that way. But the both of you will have to make do without, and you try your best to soothe him as he awakens more fully.

"Where are we?" he grinds between his teeth.

"I could not tell you the system, or even the proper name of the base, to be honest. We were evacuated from the Starkiller Base." You pause to scan his shoulder first, and 2-1B's work holds up as expected. Next the blaster wound, which seems no better or worse since he was brought to you. "My team and I have treated you the best we can considering the circumstance. I need you to answer a few questions and then I'll give you something to help with the pain and to sleep."

He groans again, this time with an edge a little more desperate, like a wound hurts him more deeply than you can see.

"I promise," you reassure. "But your leg is badly damaged, and I want to make sure you have feeling in your foot before you sleep." You keep a steady hand on his forehead and call for 2-1B. "My surgical droid is going to test certain areas of your foot. After each one, I'll ask if you can feel it. Do you feel like you can speak?"

"Yes," he says without hesitation, but closes his eyes.

"All right. Go ahead, 2-1B."

The first test makes his foot twitch slightly -- a good sign -- but you still ask if he felt it.

"Yes," he replies again, this time more controlled. His breathing seems to be easing as well, and you suppose he is relaxing himself as best he can.

He ends up having no problems with the nerves in his foot, so you slip away from your spot by his head to cover his leg back up with the blanket. Then, you move across the room to get the Symoxin to put into his IV.

"As promised."

The drug takes immediate effect by the way you judge how his body loosens up, but he still hasn't opened his eyes.

"Sleep," you order softly, finding your seat at his bedside. "You'll feel better the next time you wake up."

It's silent again, and you're tempted to doze off yourself.

"What's your name?" Kylo Ren asks suddenly, and you can tell he's fighting sleep for one reason or another. But you tell him, and you reassure him that you're a doctor with the First Order, and that you will stay until he wakes up again.

He repeats your name, and for a second you wonder if he's about to thank you.

He doesn't.

But as the next silence falls upon the room, there is a peace to it that there hadn't been before.


	2. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Kylo Ren is a terrible patient, because of course he is, and you make your report to General Hux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank everyone so, SO much for the wonderful comments, kudos, and bookmarks!! I'm kinda overwhelmed and extremely happy! Hope this doesn't disappoint!

The next time he wakes up, you are speaking in a low voice with one of the nurses, eyes dark and weary looking. He can't make out the conversation, and instead focuses on how his face itches and aches, and that his shoulders are stiff, as if he hasn't moved in a long while.

He doesn't feel much pain besides the stiffness and a sense that, beneath the haze of medication, there is something wrong with his body. And, more, there's a quiet, bubbling anger rising up in him when he _remembers_ the snow and the girl and the bite of the saber that is _his. It was his **first, his by right.**_

You glance at him now, notice that his eyes are open. He watches you as you give the nurse a tired smile and pat on the arm before turning your attention fully on him.

"How are you feeling?" you ask, crossing the room and checking over the information on the machine beside his bed.

His instinctive response is petulance. How do you _think_ he's doing, covered, almost literally, from head to toe in bandages while that scavenger is probably halfway to Luke Skywalker by now, taking his lightsaber back to him, presenting it as if--

But he knows you have no idea about any of that, and that, whether he is grateful or not, you are only performing your job. So his reply comes out with only a small amount of irritability.

"I have been better."

It makes you smile.

"I would imagine so. Your vitals are strong, though, and that will help with healing quickly, so that's good news."

"And the bad?" he demands, because he is so sure.

Your smile thins. He doesn't even have to try to look into your mind to know you're flipping through the words, searching for how best to say whatever it is that you know will displease him. Your eyes roam over his wounds, assessing, and then you look back at him, straight into his own. "One of your injuries is not healing like I would have expected. However, it is still very recent and not so very uncommon."

He knows which one without even asking, but he doesn't mention it. Instead, he brings a hand up to touch the edges of the bandage across his face. He remembers the blinding light striking him, the shock of it and how it had dulled out the pain. Everything else hurt so much more at the time; his gut, his leg, the flow of the Force, always so constant, and the tug of his lightsaber in his hands, fighting and flickering with the burn of hardly contained, hard earned power. He could not find a way to stand, or to call his saber back to him, and though now he feels shame, which he knows in time will be replaced by anger, in that moment he felt fear. The look in the girl's eyes, the familiarity of it, the conviction of his death for what'd he'd done.

But he is not dead, though he has been beaten and torn. Not for the first time, he thinks. Probably not for the last.

He tries to sit up. The bed is already slightly elevated, which helps, but pushing himself up by his own strength brings spikes of pain, particularly from his abdomen. You start to help, but he waves you away agitatedly. The sooner he can sit, the sooner he can stand, and the sooner he can stand, the sooner he can leave the med bay.

You seem to catch his train of thought, or maybe it is because the First Order is full of people who are not very good at being patients and you are particularly experienced with this kind of response. Whatever it is, you've already brought the head frame up, and he doesn't complain that he can lean back against it now that his torso is sending an unsubtle stabbing and pulsing feeling through him.

"Any discomfort?" you ask.

"No."

If you can tell he's lying, you say nothing of it. "We'll keep you at your current dosage of painkillers, then." And in afterthought, almost as a warning, you add, "The best thing you can do is rest if you want to be up and walking as soon as possible. Otherwise, 2-1B has a very mean bedside manner with people who hinder the healing process."

"I am programmed only to make sure patients receive the best possible care, Doctor," the droid says in a tone that nearly seems offended.

You give him a shrug and a small smile, and he can tell you're gauging his reaction.

He only nods, unsure and vaguely uncomfortable. He's still stuck somewhere between crossly defiant and ashamed, with too many thoughts to really respond anyway.

"Well, now that you're awake, I'd like for you to eat something, and afterwards we'll check on your injuries," you tell him firmly.

"How long was I asleep?" He doesn't like that he has lost time, and is continually losing it every moment that he has to stay in this bed. And there's the thought eating at the back of his mind that he will have to face the Supreme Leader as a failure, yet again. It's worse than the knowledge that he'll have to suffer through Hux's transparently smug glances.

"A little more than twelve hours," you answer.

"A waste."

Smile gone, you look at him -- not at his wounds, nor as a doctor trying to assess a patient, but as someone who seems to try and look through him, maybe curious, certainly transfixed, though not in a way that suggested anything obtuse or condescending. He holds your gaze, perhaps feeling the challenge of it, but in a moment you look away. He wonders what you surmised, if it was satisfactory to whatever ideal you'd come up with about him.

And there it is. It is a simple thing to slip into the easy sheath of contempt.

"It is not," you reply shortly. "It is not a waste when you have been through so much. You require it."

He'd sneer if he didn't think it would set off a flare of unnecessary pain throughout his face. He can already feel a headache on the brink of pounding its way through his head. So instead, he closes his eyes and manages to not use the Force on the person who, admittedly, did save his life not even a day ago. His own fault anyway, he tells himself.

 It brings him no comfort and takes away none of the resentment.

He hears you move away.

"Do you think you could find someone to bring him some food, Wrehin?" you ask the nurse quietly.

"Right away."

You leave him to his thoughts, then, and he keeps his eyes closed because it's easier. He concentrates on feeling instead of remembering; he has had enough of that.

He doesn't quite fall asleep, but when he feels a light touch on his arm it nearly startles him out of a trance. You're back with the promised food, lifting up a tray attached to the bed and placing it before him. He's about to snap that he is perfectly capable of eating on his own, without an assistant or an audience, but you walk back to a computer terminal without a word before he can do much more than furrow his brows.

The food is simple and bland, and he doesn't have much of an appetite though he hasn't eaten in quite some time. When he's finished, it is the nurse who comes to take the plate away and move the tray back down. Wrehin, you'd said her name was. She's young, perhaps only 19 or 20, and she doesn't look at him at all when she returns with gloved hands and new rolls of bandages.

"I'm going to change your bandages, sir." Her voice is light and weak, he thinks, but she slowly undoes the wrap around his head with steady hands.

Air hits his face and he wants to reach up and touch the line running from his left eyebrow, over his nose and across his right cheek, but manages to keep his hands gripping the blanket. Wrehin is keenly focused, however, and dabs some kind of ointment on the wound before replacing the strip. Much of the rest of his injuries are treated and redressed in the same manner, but she leave the blaster wound alone. When she's finished, she calls for the doctor to inspect her work.

You thank the nurse, who simply nods and moves aside for you to get a better look at his abdomen.

"I'm going to lay you back," you warn.

He grits his teeth and says nothing, decides looking up at the metal ceiling is better than watching you work, and it helps him focus on something other than how the movement makes ripples of pain blossom outward from that injury in particular.

Your touch is very gentle as you lift away the bacta patch. He catches your faint hum.

"It's worse than expected," you confirm bluntly.

He supposes that's what happens when you beat on a recent shot, fight against the pain, and continue to duel untrained children in the snow, but he only gives you his own low hum in response.

"It would have killed you, if it had been a few inches higher."

He knows. He isn't thinking about that.

"But," you say airily, the perfect tone of halfhearted optimism, "we'll do our best and keep an eye on it. It _will_ heal, but you must be patient."

His strong suit.

You eye him like you know what he's thinking. _That_ makes him want to laugh.

After you've cleaned and redressed the wound, you pull back to look at him. Although there is a machine hooked up to monitor him -- he can hear the whirr of machinery and the quiet beep that must be his pulse -- you still reach to feel his forehead, as if checking his temperature. Something about the gesture forces away the thought of being annoyed.

You don't smile at him, but he gets the feeling that you're asking him to rest. For the moment, he is too weary to argue.

He breathes in deep, and it hurts.

\----

General Hux calls for you after Kylo Ren has finally fallen back asleep. You presume it's to discuss Ren's condition, but something about it has you twisting in knots, not sure what exactly you're supposed to tell him other than, well, that Ren is going to be out of commission for at least a week. Longer if you can push the issue.

You're not sure how the General will take the news. Of course, you don't know the man outside of the fact that he's the visionary of the very machine that obliterated the Hosnian System and the Republic, and is responsible for much of what the First Order has done in recent times. You know even less about his relationship with Kylo Ren. In many ways, between the General and Kylo Ren, General Hux scares you more. Perhaps it is because it is not the General you'd recently dragged back to the living.

You haven't heard the details about what had happened at Starkiller Base, but you assume the broad gist of it: the Resistance had broken a prisoner free, had taken Captain Phasma out of the picture, briefly, and that enemy X-wings had managed to somehow blow a hole in the thermal oscillator, thus also blowing the entire weapon and planet to bits. Somewhere in that, Kylo Ren had lost a battle.

But Captain Phasma had been saved as well, something for which you are relieved about. You enjoyed, if not a friendship, then an amiable relationship with the military Captain, who often had to send her stormtroopers to your care.

Now she is escorting you to General Hux. You find the new base to be twisting and narrow, and are glad for the guide. When you arrive at an expansive room with wide, tall windows, Captain Phasma moves ahead of you.

"General, the doctor," she announces.

"Thank you," he replies. He's sitting in a large, low black chair facing the windows. He looks contemplative, and doesn't seem to be in any rush to speak right away. The Captain dismisses herself while you try to decide whether to move closer or stay where you are. The room does have a rather extraordinary view of the stars, but you can't make out what exactly the General could be staring so intently at.

At last, "My soldiers say that you've managed to wrangle Ren into an acceptable condition."

You chew over the words, but find them somewhat lacking. "I think, sir, that would depend on your definition of 'acceptable.' He is... physically mending, slowly."

"He's capable of making your job difficult, yes? I'd call that acceptable."

You can't believe that, in your first meeting, General Hux is making a joke. At least, you think it's a joke. He isn't smiling, but he doesn't seem the type to smile easily. Nevertheless, you do smile, but look down, reluctant to show your amusement. It is true, after all.

"What is his condition?" he asks more directly this time.

"No longer critical, but he should be watched. He's in pain but managing it well. The lacerations on his face and shoulder are healing, but the wounds on his abdomen and leg will take more time before any sign of improvement."

"And your professional recommendation?"

"Rest. Regular bandage and bacta patch changes, and a close eye on his medication intake. The abdomen injury in particular is very open and liable to infection if not properly cared for. I would recommend bed rest for a week, at the very least."

"A week," Hux murmurs.

You decide not to ask him to elaborate. And instead, hesitantly, add, "Sir, if it were possible to move him to a more fully functional medical facility, the process would be quicker."

He hums in consideration. "For now, that will be impossible. He will have his week of bed rest, if that is what you deem acceptable."

"For now, sir?"

General Hux turns his head to look at you out of the corner of his eye, his voice steady and low. "The work of years was undone in a single moment because Ren became hasty and fixated on plans that were not the Orders." He turns back, and it feels like a dismissal. "But we will rebuild, as the Empire did before us. So to answer your question, Doctor: yes, for now."

You can't imagine what he is thinking, and you're fairly safe in assuming that you don't want to know. You save lives, you remind yourself, even these. Maybe especially these. There is comfort in that responsibility, heavy as it is. Kylo Ren will heal, and you will see to it that he does. You're relieved that the General agrees, though you can't place why you thought he wouldn't.

"I will leave you to your patient. Update me if there is any change in his condition."

He can't see you nod, but you find yourself doing it anyway.

"And Doctor," he calls out, just as you are turning to leave, "the First Order appreciates the work you are doing."

You don't know why, but the praise leaves your mouth feeling dry. Still, you say, "Of course, sir. Thank you."

The door slides shut and you breathe a sigh of relief you didn't know you'd been holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get this chapter out for you guys quickly. The next one might take a little while to post because I'm having family come visit me. 
> 
> Thank you again for all the wonderful feedback!!


	3. A Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which you just cleaned up this mess, can't they keep it clean for five minutes, and everyone is surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a good number of reasons why this is so late, but none of them are very interesting. Hopefully you all still want to read this, though, and I hope you enjoy!

The view from the co-pilot's seat is nearly breathtaking. There are tall, tree-brushed mountains behind the mist of clouds, and the glistening of water shines in the distance. They've been to this place before when he was much younger than he is now, and it brings back memories of warmth on his skin and quiet afternoons. Seeing all that green almost seems to soothe his eyes after what felt like hours of dark space; it makes him want to never tear his eyes away. In an impulse, he nearly stands to get a better look. He remembers. He has a job to do now.

And he _can_ do it.

He reminds himself of that when he flicks a switch, pushes a button. There's a very distant feeling of awe, that he's being allowed to do this, being _taught_ to do this, trusted with the responsibility. He's unsure if it takes them by surprise just how serious he is. Why shouldn't he be, he wonders. He already knows there is so much he can do, more than what they think him capable of. There's a flutter of aggravation somewhere buried deep, but the sentiment is so far away now, like a large part of himself has been wrapped in heavy cloth, muted and unreachable. All he knows is he has to help land safely, that people are counting on that.

They begin to descend through clouds glowing heavenly through the sunlight. It looks warm to him, like a blanket over the mountains.

Someone speaks; he recognizes the voice. He grips the controls tight. He's on the edge of something. His gut hurts. He's nervous. He hopes his face doesn't show it. He doesn't look away. He concentrates. He can do it.

There's memory in his hands, guiding him along. He's tense, but there's a hand on his shoulder. It shakes him -- not physically, but it jars his mind, stirring, stirring. Concentrate. The ground gets closer and clouds disappear. His hands feel slow, but they don't shake.

"You're doing great, kid."

Part of him knows how this goes. He knows the moves better than his mind remembers, yet there's a quaking, a lurch. He falters. In a moment he knows he'll turn back, away from the view of the planet, questioning--

In the same breath the scene blurs; it feels natural. He's in a room at night. There are three moons he can see out the window beside his bed. It makes the room bright, and he thinks that's what is still keeping him awake. Someone knocks at the door but he doesn't rise to answer it. He closes his eyes but he can still see the light of the moons, the soft pale glow. No darkness envelops him, yet he can't even hide from it beneath his closed eyelids. Not even here. And he's cold, so he reaches for the covers bunched around his feet. The door opens. Someone speaks again. The same person? He listens; he thinks he understands. There's a question he should answer, isn't there? Something left unsaid. His gut still hurts, and he nearly tells them.

Instead, he glances down. It's unbearable. A pain between his ribs. His hands slide away from his stomach and come back bloody. His strength leaves him. His hands shake. He understands. It's not regret. It's not regret. There was no room in himself for that. He remembers with that part of himself that is waking, so he evens his breath, pushes away from the mountains and the moons, the seat, the hand.

Pain is replaced with disgust.

He wakes.

\----

The report you've been staring at for the past half hour is no more complete than it was last night when you'd left it for your last patient check before bed. General Hux had sent a formal request for Ren's physical evaluation, which should have been easy enough. You've noticed that Kylo Ren does not ease from sleep as well as you would have imagined, particularly with the medication you are weaning him off of. Not ideal, but not at all uncommon. If his dour expressions are any indication, you're tempted to say that he is less eager to go than you are to make him stay. Perhaps it's the pain, or maybe looming responsibility sets him on edge more than life threatening wounds. You have a feeling it has more to do with his restless nights keeping him from that quick recovery you had all but promised General Hux. However, there is no stopping the fact that at the end of the seventh sleep cycle, you'll pack a proverbial to-go bag for him -- complete with a reminders list that you're fairly certain he'll ignore.

Frustrating didn't quite cover your week with Kylo Ren if you think about it for too long. He didn't complain, you'll give him that, but he practically emitted a palpable, prickly aura. It certainly didn't help that his automatic response to gauging his pain-level and proper range of motion in his leg and arm was an annoyingly unhelpful "It's fine." But you couldn't exactly write that in your report to the General. He seemed more keen on Ren returning than placing any more plans on hold, and you weren't positive that either person would react well to another week of bed rest. Though, on second thought, maybe it would brighten the General's day.

You sigh and rest your head in the palm of your hand. There was still a little time before you would need to send the report, and maybe in between inspiration would find you. In the meantime, it wouldn't hurt to check in on said patient. It'd be a shame if something disastrous happened on the eve of his release from the med bay.

The walk from your quarters is quiet. The base doesn't quite seem to bustle in the same way the former had, and for some reason it unnerves you. Surely the First Order had already sent people to other places to regroup and begin preparations to rebuild. Perhaps, even, there were plans set in motion long before Starkiller Base had met its fate. General Hux had seemed so certain last you'd spoken to him that it was easy enough to believe.

As you reach the door, Captain Phasma is making her way out. She tilts her head in acknowledgment as you approach, and you manage a small smile in return.

"Everything's in order, I hope," you ask.

"More or less, Doctor. He seems in fine order but foul mood."

"Business as usual, then," you joke. "I'm sure he appreciated the visit."

"I suppose you'll find out for yourself," she says, already walking away, and you're half inclined to laugh, but part of you worries that it's more on the side of a warning.

Her footsteps echo down the hall as the door to the med bay slides open quietly. Kylo Ren is sitting up in his bed, still the only patient to be left in this particular area for recovery. He looks almost comical to you, hair disheveled and a gray, loose shirt that just nearly fits him and ties in the front for quick access in case of emergency. But he also appears tired and pale; old and young all at once, as if something were being drained from him. He only bothers to glance up at you from whatever information Captain Phasma had left as you approach him to glance over his medical chart at the side of his bed.

"More good news?" he says in a way that makes it seem less like biting sarcasm and more like he'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed his entire life. You remember his restlessness and figure, in the end, that could be as plausible an explanation as any.

"Good morning to you too, sir."

The bandages around his face and shoulder were removed three days ago, though the wounds are still red and angry looking, his facial wounds more so. You are pleased with his progress, despite everything.

You manage to keep the sarcasm out of your own voice, and are proud at how cheerful you sound. "Believe it or not, yes." At least partly, you think. Hope. "I'm expecting to clear you for discharge from our care tomorrow morning." The information doesn't surprise him and it you're beginning to wonder if he already knew. You aren't sure what you were expecting by the declaration anyway, but he has a way of making things rather drawn out and painful when he wants them to be, particularly for someone so renowned for his impatience.

"However?" he prompts.

You hold back another sigh. "You know yourself, sir. You're doing well, but you're still not recovered. It's going to take more time, and you're going to have to _try_ not to push yourself overmuch unless you want to do more serious damage to yourself."

You recall the shot to his abdomen and sincerely doubt your words will deter him, should he consider the need to arise. He still does not look at you, half immersed in the information in his hands. "So you've said. How often will you repeat yourself," he murmurs lowly. There's hardly any sting to the words, though. You think he sounds very tired.

"Once more, just to be safe." You give him what you hope to be a convincing smile and move away.

Kylo Ren does leave the following day, and you send your report to General Hux, prompt as you had hoped. Time goes on, as time does, and you find yourself busy ushering in new recruits from Hux's and Phasma's new, growing army. The Captain asks you to demonstrate proper field medical procedures -- an unexpectedly nice change of pace to show the soldiers how to help save themselves and their comrades rather than be left untreated or see the end result of improper care. No one from your medical team sees Ren, even for a check-up, though you'd solicited for it more than once. Part of you tells yourself that it isn't your problem, that he isn't bothered and it is a relief to carry about your work without the threat of Kylo Ren bleeding out or brooding in your med bay. Another equally as compelling part, the part that made you want to become a physician, to join the First Order, to make half the decisions you'd made thus far, wanted to see him through to the end -- to help him. But maybe those are waters too far over your head.

Shy of a month after evacuating Starkiller Base, you finally hear that Kylo Ren is leaving, destination unknown, at least to most everyone aboard. It doesn't come as much of a surprise. You can't help but feel somewhat annoyed, and while you can't completely lay a finger on why, you have a vague sense that whatever is being put into motion will result in nothing but more stress and a lot of pain; for someone, at least. You're hoping that someone isn't you, and it'd be nice if it wasn't Kylo Ren, either. If only because you'd just patched him up and would like to avoid a similar situation altogether.

What does come as a surprise is a sudden meeting with Hux, this time properly and much more formal. Your entire team is brought in and you each sit around a round table with high backed chairs and a glare from the lights on the surface in front of you. There's also a rather charming effect of the stars glittering along parts of the table closest to the wide set windows.

It is more than just General Hux in attendance; others of various station and rank are sitting and standing around alike. Some you've met regularly in one form or another, but most you have never worked with. There are faces you don't recognize at all, even from your time on Starkiller Base and before. It reminds you that many did not make it.

You're thanked for your fast and efficient work after the events of Starkiller Base, and for your continued efforts with the troops. Words like "invaluable" and "key to the restoration of the galaxy" are thrown at you, but to be honest, you are waiting for whatever they actually called you in for.

Nearly two years with the First Order and over a year as one of the prime physicians and not once had you been called to a meeting unless there was something more they thought you could do for them. You didn't fault them for it. It was reasonable to use your assets to their fullest capacity when the goal was so lofty, and for the most part, you're happily left to your work without higher-ups looking over your shoulder at all times.

A sudden thought shoots a bolt of doubt through you. Had Kylo Ren complained? But they had just thanked you, so surely not...

"Doctor," General Hux says at last, "You have proven more than capable. You remain calm and alert, even in crisis, and for that alone we are fortunate. Captain Phasma speaks highly of your training and field medicine knowledge." You tip your head in acknowledgment of the compliment, relieved, and he continues. "We would like you to carry on your work in this particular area. There are-- complications expected to arrive, but we have little idea as to when." 

He looks grudging to admit the last bit, as much as he can, at least, and he pauses afterwards for an uncomfortably long time; so much so that you begin to wonder if he's giving you the opportunity to speak, to question him.

"Sir, I--"

"We would like to send you to a small base. It is remote, but your skills are necessary."

He stops again, and this time you cut in. "I'm pleased to hear my advice is being taken, and even more that it's useful, but sir, I'm a doctor. I have little experience in research, particularly in such circumstances, and even less as any kind of battlefront medic. And the work here--"

"Will be attended to. You're required elsewhere. And I believe you're under the impression that there is anyone else to send, which is both inaccurate and short-sighted." His tone left no room for argument, but you had more questions than before, more doubts. When he spoke again, it was almost somber. "Doctor, the First Order gives no empty promises. You are trained, and what's more, you are skilled. There is a threat to the galaxy, more dangerous than you possibly foresee."

Looking at the faces around the room, everyone appears severe, the atmosphere heavy. And so you nod, unsure of what else to do.

"Of course, sir. I will strive to accomplish as you see fit." Even if you weren't entirely sure what it was they wanted you to achieve. Better medical treatment on the battlefront? It seems like such a meager thing to request. It wasn't really, you knew; saving people's lives when they needed it most was in no way something to ignore, but surely...

The meeting then proceeds with more formalities and a line of information quickly listed out to you. They tell you when you'll be leaving -- within the week -- and that Nurse Wrehin will take temporary charge of your duties. They will leave what you will take with you to your own discretion, but warn you to be prepared for hostile environments.

When all is finished, most file out of the meeting quietly, others murmuring things you can't catch between your own clouded thoughts. General Hux was right in saying that you are trained-- of course you're trained. You can shoot a blaster at least marginally better than an inexperienced civilian, and you're familiar with treating the wounded straight from the battlefield. But you'd never actually been required to serve on the front line, and you can't shake the feeling that there is more to it. You don't even know what this threat against the First Order is. The Resistance seems the likeliest choice since they'd already taken down the main base. You're partly annoyed that they won't tell you straight out, but perhaps you really are better off not knowing. What you do know is already uneasy information; hostile environments could account for a fair number of things.

You reach your room, weary but unwilling to sleep with so much on your mind, running over what you know and trying to glean some kind of expectation out of this new assignment. You come up with nothing new except a headache pounding between your eyes and, eventually, only a handful of hours of sleep.

In the following days, you try to concentrate on tying loose ends; finishing reports, checking that the med bay is left in suitable condition. It makes you realize how well prepared your nurses and 2-1B are, and it eases some nerves. You've always maintained a good relationship with them, and it will be strange to work without them by your side after so long.

When the day of your departure finally arrives, you feel as prepared as you can be, two bags in hand with personal and medical effects alike. There is no fanfare, not that you expected any, and you've already said your goodbyes. You board along with a handful of stormtroopers, the rest of the crew preparing to depart. There's a seat waiting for you after you've stored your bags away. You take it with little reluctance.

The shuttle lifts from the ground as you close your eyes, waiting for the push of light speed towards an unknown planet. You brace yourself.

When you open your eyes again, there is only darkness.


End file.
